Love blossoms. Anger burns. Joy transforms colours, brightening, heightening. Shame sinks, into the pit of my stomach, pulling my thoughts inward to berate.
Compassion draws me world-ward, lifts reflection from the yawning pit of self. The suffering of a sister or a brother has power, if we let it. Push aside the blinkers. The ones which protect me from dismay and despair, keep my eyes on the goal, the task, the race. Pushed aside for a moment (or a year) to notice havoc wreaked by the garden-banished universe.
Our father, source of compassion, origin of ears that really hear and eyes that really see. He empowers us to notice. To notice another and be moved by their predicament.
On my own I never reach compassion, so absorbed am I in me. Only the breath of God, the God-with-me within can shatter my absorption. My own mistakes can be the seed of compassion for those with a common struggle or loss.
I pray for eyes to see. I pray for ears to hear. Often half-hearted. Sometimes distracted, guarded. Momentarily, I see. His broken heart engulfs my own in that brief glimpse. Perhaps I am stuffed into a crevice with a hand across the gap because I cannot bear the brilliance, the searing sadness, of a truly godly vision.
Compassion is a good gift from above. Supernatural in its strength to pull us other-ward.
Compassion today... mothers blamed for their criticism forming broken spirited children.
My colleague, "Some of us know what it is to have a critical mother..."
Me (I inwardly gasp at a dawning reality), "Some of us know what it is to be a critical mother." Oh how I wish I did not.
Some mothers never know the grace of God which can begin to heal their disappointment with themselves and their children. My prayers today are for them.
The Compassion Blog Carnival - One Word at a Time.